Trouble in the Form of a Woman
by BrittFaceNess
Summary: John & Sherlock get a visit from third Holmes sibling. What comes along with it though, is what makes it interesting. /I am not proud of this fic, so I suggest you skip your eyes over it/
1. Chapter 1

**_a/n: _I think this is the shortest chapter I've ever written. I'm still wondering if I should continue, that's probably why. **

**Enjoy! **

**Review! **

**Should I continue?**

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Since living and working alongside Sherlock Holmes, the ex-army doctor had been in so many odd situations that rarely anything surprised him anymore. A head in the fridge? Sure. A part of the kitchen charred black from a small explosion? No big deal.

So when John Watson walked in the flat of 221B Baker Street to find the consulting detective throwing butcher knives at the wall, he shouldn't have been shocked. But he was. The grocery bags forgotten at the door, John ran over cautiously. "Sherlock! What the _hell_ are you doing?"

Sherlock skillfully threw another knife at the opposite wall and it stuck there, piercing the yellow smiley face. "What does it look like? I'm throwing knives. Be more observant, John."

John carefully gathered the rest of the knives in his grasp before the other man could grab another. "May I ask _why_? Surely you're not bored already. We just solved another case this morning."

"No, John. Boredom is not the reason." He replied, throwing himself on the couch.

After putting the knives and the few groceries away, John returned to the common room. Sherlock's lanky legs were stretched out, arms above his head in a relaxing stance, with his gaze pinned to the ceiling. "Well?"

"Well what?" Sherlock muttered, not even glancing over.

"Are you going to tell me what made you throw knives at the bloody wall?" the ex-army doctor crossed his arms. Sherlock stayed silent as if he hadn't heard John at all and brought the tips of his fingertips together in front of his mouth.

"And you must be John."

John blinked, and for one absurd second he thought the voice had come from the man lying on the couch. But this voice was female, sultry, and sexy. He turned to look behind him to where the lovely sound had come from-

She was wrapped in a deep red robe, which fell gracefully to her knees. John took in her long, curly black hair, bright green eyes, and perfectly sculpted cheekbones. Her full lips quirked into a shy smile.

With a blush, John realized he hadn't said a word in response. "Uhm…" He cleared his throat loudly. "Uhm, hello."

He glanced at Sherlock, then back to the girl. Had the detective gotten himself a girlfriend? John's eyebrows pulled together in confusion – no, that didn't fit. Sherlock didn't date, and he wasn't interested in the act at all. So…who was this, and why did it look like she just woke up?

The beautiful creature before his eyes swished gracefully into the room. "Sorry about the state of your bed – you know I how I like to sleep with no covers."

John suddenly felt uncomfortable. So they had slept together last night? Which obviously meant they were together-

"John, this is Cordelia." Sherlock muttered, cutting the woman off harshly.

"Uhm…h-hello." John held out his hand to her politely, but the uneasiness in his stomach hadn't dissipated. Why was he feeling so odd about this?

Her hand formed into his softly and he watched a grin form on her face. A loose strand of hair fell in front of her eyes.

"Hello, John Watson. Please, call me Lia. I'm Sherlock's sister."


	2. Chapter 2

_**a/n: **_**Thanks for the reviews :) I'm still not sure how far I'll get with this one. Depends on what you guys think of it so far.**

**Review please!**

**Enjoy~**

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Cordelia Holmes was perched on the chair her brother sat in most often, eyeing the two men in front of her with great interest. Sherlock had been in the same position for over two hours now, which she was comfortably used to by now. Even as a child, her brother had taken up the same stance. Fingers pressed together like praying, but she knew it was far from that.

Lia's gaze travelled over to other man, the one that interested her most. Sandy brown hair ruffled to part to one side, worry lines creasing his forehead as he continued to read the newspaper in those strong, military hands. The doctor wore a creamy white cabled jumper, and she could tell by some worn threads that he loved it a lot. A gift then? Probably from his sister. Ah, yes, his sister. Lia noticed the slight tired look in his eyes, meaning his sister wasn't doing so well the past couple of days. Bright, blue eyes met hers and she locked onto them quickly. The past couple of hours since she had met him – he hadn't said a word to her and avoided her curios gaze. Now she had him locked. Focusing on the ocean colored eyes, Lia felt a rush of emotions all at once. Worry, obviously, she had just deduced that from just his facial expression. But then there was a wave of anxiety, a hint of compassion, and-

He broke eye contact, but Lia had already sensed it.

_Jealousy._

Lia's lips quirked into a content smile, and she finally sunk back into the chair. Jealousy was always a curious trait in people – with just a thread of jealousy; it could turn into a battle, a war. And she was always up for a war.

"Dr. Watson?" Lia mused, and in return got a quirked brow from the man in question. "You should call your sister if you're so worried about her."

A long, dramatic sigh escaped from her brother's lips. It basically meant for her to shut the hell up. She ignored it.

Dr. Watson merely blinked at her, shock clearly laced in his emotions, but he had a knack for hiding those when he wanted to. "My sister? How did you know I had a- wait, how did you know I was worried…"

He stopped mid-sentence, shock fading from his gaze. Lia could just sense his thoughts being pieced together and finally saw it click in his eyes. "Oh, right."

"Cordelia, why don't you go bother Mycroft." Sherlock muttered from his place on the sofa. "Obviously John is feeling quite uncomfortable with you here-"

"Oh, brother, nonsense. Dr. Watson enjoys my company." Lia gave the doctor a small smile. In response, a faint blush flourished his cheeks and he stared at the floor.

"_Cordelia._"

Lia looked over at her brother and was met with a controlled glare. She clenched her jaw in protest, but all he did was raise an eyebrow. She loved Sherlock, she really did. For Heaven's sake, he was family. But even Mycroft was nicer to her – he spoiled her when they were younger.

Being the youngest in the family had its ups and downs she guessed.

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><p>John watched Cordelia leave the flat, her black coat whirling behind her. He stared at the door for a couple seconds longer, hearing the downstairs door shut firmly as she left.<p>

The doctor drummed his fingers along the arm of his chair and then got enough courage to steal a glance in Sherlock's direction.

The consulting detective was sitting up – when had he sat up? Their gazes locked, and finally the other man sighed. "Okay, you have questions."

A smile touched John's lips, his words bringing up memories. He shook his head a little. "No questions. I'm just…confused."

"You're wondering why I or Mycroft never told you about our sister, the youngest Holmes sibling. That's precisely why."

John blinked and opened his mouth to say something, but closed it. He tried again. "I don't really see what's wrong with her, to be completely honest."

His statement was met with utter silence and he realized it was the wrong thing to say. Sherlock stood up and climbed over the table, walking directly over to his flat mate. "She is always up to no good – it's annoying. Cordelia has always caused trouble for Mycroft and I, along with my mother." He huffed. "It's as if she doesn't know how to put her talents to good use – it's maddening. I always have to clean up after her mistakes." With a quick look at John's raised eyebrows, he continued on. "Of course you wouldn't know this – you just met the girl. And I hope this is all you see of her – she is to stay at Mycroft's flat until her leave, and not to disturb our work."

John waited a few seconds and when he felt it was safe, he laughed a little. "You really don't get along with your family, do you."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I would rather not talk of her anymore." He grabbed a folder off of the desk and practically threw it at the other man. "These are the details of our victim's past connections. I need you to look through them."

"What? Why can't _you_?" John protested, though he was already opening the folder.

"Too busy. I'm thinking."

As Sherlock walked off to the kitchen, John's thoughts trailed to Cordelia. She didn't seem that bad, he thought. But from his experience with the consulting detective and the brother who practically controlled the British government, John knew there was more to Cordelia than just a pretty face.

Sherlock's phone buzzed once, indicating he had gotten a text. John glanced over his shoulder and watched the raven-haired man pull his eyes from his microscope and to the cellphone's screen. He visibly paled.

John closed the folder and threw it carelessly back on the desk. He made his way over to the kitchen. "Sherlock? What's wrong?"

The ex-army doctor took the phone, reading the text and tried his very best not to laugh.

_**Cordelia will be staying with you. -MH**_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **_**Whoop! Look at you lot! Thanks for the reviews! **

**I've been prompted to write more, so here you are! It's sort of a fill-in for now, the ideas are still forming inside my head. I've been chatting with a new friend (Shall be lifted Nevermore) & she's like my skull to bounce ideas off of, the lovely girl. Thank you.**

**I will update sooner than last, sorry for the delay.**

**So enjoy!**

**Review!**

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John Watson awoke that morning to the wonderful smell of breakfast. For a slight moment, he thought that he was still deep in his dreams – for no one but he ever made meals in the flat of 221B Baker Street. But blinking once or twice and sitting up in bed told him otherwise. He flung the duvet off his pajama-clothed body in a hurry, suddenly worried. If the consulting detective was making food, it was bound to be disastrous. John slipped his robe on and hurried downstairs.

The ex-army doctor was met with a lovely, but disturbing, and slightly worrisome sight.

Cordelia was at the stove, frying up what he guessed was bacon. To his utter surprise, two more skillets were perched on the other burners. With a closer look, John realized she was also cooking up hash browns and eggs. As if on cue, toast popped up out of the toaster.

Sherlock's sister had moved in just last night, appearing on the doorstep with an overnight bag in hand along with a devious smile.

"Good morning!" She greeted cheerfully, placing the finished pork on a paper towel-covered plate.

"You can cook." Was all John said, still watching in amazement.

"Come now, Dr. Watson." Cordelia chided. "Cooking is just the process of preparing nutritional substances by the use of direct heat. It's quite simple if you know the skills and practices used to do this. Anyone could cook if they really attempted."

John chewed on his bottom lip. "So you made us breakfast?"

"No, don't be stupid. This is for you." Cordelia sipped on steaming coffee from John's mug and flashed him a smug smile. She then proceeded to scrape the hash browns into a medium-sized bowl and skillfully flip the eggs over.

"John only has a slice of toast for his usual breakfast, along with tea." A gravelly voice said from behind. With a glance, John watched Sherlock step into the kitchen. A look of pure disgust was plastered on his face.

Cordelia titled her chin up. "Well the reason behind that is most likely because Dr. Watson is too much in a rush to even get a good amount of substance in his body. You parade him out of the door too soon. It also explains why the poor man is so hungry whilst running about London with _you._"

Sherlock's face remained placid, but a slight twitch in his lip gave away his frustration level. In return, his sister gave him a smirk.

John continued biting his bottom lip.

This was going to be _hell._

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Sherlock Holmes lay on the couch with his gaze penetrating the ceiling as if it was mocking him. The flat was peaceful at the moment – oh, well, except for the banging around in the kitchen as pans clashed against each other, the rushing of tap water, the click of heels, and the murmuring of voices. They thought that he couldn't hear them – that maybe if they hushed their talking the two of them could go unheard. Wrong. Of course they were wrong. And the thing that bothered Sherlock most was that Cordelia knew he could hear them chatting up a storm. It drove him insane. _She _drove him insane.

It had been two days since his sister had moved in, three days since the last case, and three and a half days since he had last slept a wink (not that he needed sleep, mind you).

Cordelia was not making the situation any better, and she knew it. Of course she knew it.

Then there was John. _His _friend, _his_ blogger. The man did not even have a clue of what was happening. Sherlock's _lovely_ sister had made sure of it.

"John, you don't have to do the dishes. I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind." He heard her say in a teasing voice, noting a hint of frustration there.

John gave a small laugh. "Mrs. Hudson would not let the matter go if I didn't."

It wasn't his or John's fault there were dishes. They had rarely _ever _used dishes (not including the cups they used for tea) before his _endearing _sister came along. Takeout or Angelo's had suited the two men just fine. But Cordelia insisted on cooking. _Insisted _was a nicer word for it, Sherlock mused. Even worse, John was starting to enjoy the home cooked meals.

Sherlock blew out a puff of air, sending a curl from his forehead flying to return to the others. He had to stop this worrying – it wasn't like him, not at all. In fact, he decided right then and there that he would just let John do whatever he wanted. Sherlock pursed his lips, quirking a brow at the ceiling as if to say _"Ha!"_

An alert from his cellphone snapped the consulting detective out of deep thought. He snatched the phone up with long fingers. Sherlock smiled at the text, automatically giving a yell to his blogger.

Faithfully obeying, this said blogger padded into the room while drying his hands on the back of his pants. "Was that Lestrade?"

Sherlock was already sliding his coat on and wrapping the blue scarf about his neck. "Coming?"

John nodded quickly. "Of course. Let me just grab my coat."

The detective watched as his friend disappeared up the staircase and to his room. Cordelia appeared in his previous place.

She met his glare with one of her own. "I'm coming with."

"No."

"Sherlock-"

"_Cordelia._ No. If you are to inhabit my own flat, you will listen to my orders. Are we clear?"

Sherlock expected his sister to put more into her side of the argument, insisting she tag along out of pure boredom, curious to see her brother in action. Anything. But all he got in return was a raise of her perfect eyebrow.

John returned then and asked the other man if he was ready to go.

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Cordelia Holmes was not a woman to be tantalized, especially by her own brothers. They never underestimated her; no they had learned that lesson already when all three of them were children. But being the youngest, you were bound to get teased and taunted by the elders.

They were smart, her brothers. Oh, they were clever just as she was. They had their talents and their wits. But they also had weaknesses.

And Cordelia Holmes knew exactly what those weaknesses were.

A smile ghosted her red lips then as she rode in a taxi discreetly following her brother and Dr. Watson to wherever that text had told the two men to go.

Her brother had specifically stated she was to _listen_ to his orders.

That did not mean she had to _obey _them.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: ****Thank you for all the lovely reviews! While lying in bed last night trying to fall asleep listening to Mumford & Sons, the plot idea finally came to me! (Yes, I tend to think of plots AFTERWARDS thank you very much haha)**

**Enjoy!**

**Review and tell me your thoughts! :)**

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It was a ten minute drive to Scotland Yard from 221B Baker Street, but to the ex-army doctor it felt like a lifetime. Dark rain clouds hung in the sky threatening to let loose, and the lights of London shone in through the taxi windows. Beside him in the seat sat the silent consulting detective. Even though it was normal for him to be doing so, it still unnerved John Watson. They had left the flat in a hurry, not even saying a word of goodbye to his sister. Was that the reason of his complete silence? Surely he couldn't be thinking of the case yet – Sherlock knew no details of it at the moment. The doctor stole a glance to the man. He looked fine – calm and relaxed features, no furrowed brow. His hands were clasped together tightly in his lap though-

"Stop it, John."

John blinked in confusion. "I…what?"

"You're trying to deduce my actions and figure out why I'm acting like this, therefore excessively thinking. It's overwhelming me and quite annoying. Why don't you just simply ask?" Sherlock snapped, finally breaking his gaze from the glass window to switch it to John's face.

"Wait, hang on a minute. I _did _ask you."

"What? When?"

"I…right when we got into the taxi!"

Sherlock waved off his remark with his hand. "Never mind. Forget it. We have more important things to put our concentration into."

"Like what, exactly?"

"The _case_, John. The _case._"

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Sherlock took the manila envelope from the Detective Inspector's hands in his own and turned it over carefully. Scrawled on the front in elegant cursive was his name. Black ink – good pen with expensive ink. A woman's writing, perhaps. Though the way the 'k' stopped abruptly it could have been a man writing this. The envelope was in perfect condition, so it had only been delivered once – not through several people. Important, then. It couldn't fall into the wrong hands. It had to be delivered to him immediately and directly.

"No idea of who sent it, I assume." Sherlock muttered, opening the envelope with great care.

In response, Lestrade gave a shake of his head. "Not at all. It was dropped off right in front of my office door – the cameras didn't pick up anything either."

The consulting detective peeked inside and reached in; pulling out what had been stored in it.

"A tape?" John mused, leaning in to get a better look at it.

"Obviously."

"Obviously." The doctor sighed.

Sherlock averted his gaze from the video tape to glance quickly at John who stood beside him. He looked tired- had he not gotten sleep last night? What had kept him up? Worry? John's mouth was set into a thin line. Definitely worry. What was he worried about?

"Well are you going to play the tape, dearest? Or just stand there and observe your friend?" Came a voice from the doorway of Lestrade's office.

Sherlock noticed all the following at once.

The worry lines on John's forehead increased, his eyebrows pulled together, and the once-relaxed stance he'd been in disappeared and was replaced by a stiffened back.

Behind his desk, Lestrade had a slight intake of breath, in both surprise and shock, the consulting detective guessed.

And his _adoring _sister standing in the entrance, clothed in a black jacket similar to his own, though a lot more feminine (five large buttons in the front, a tie around the waist), and a blood red scarf secured around her neck. She was smiling smugly at him, waiting for his next move.

"I thought I told you to stay at the flat." He simply said, handing the tape to Lestrade.

"No, you simply said to listen to you."

"And is this listening to, Cordelia?"

"Dear brother, you said listen. Not obey." Her smile widened, showing her white teeth.

Sherlock turned away from her and focused his attention to Lestrade. "Stop gaping at the woman and put the tape in the television, Lestrade."

Slightly baffled with a blush creeping up his neck, the Detective Inspector did so. Pushing play, they all watched the screen closely.

It was pitch black at first. Then as if someone had flicked on a light switch, the screen lit up, revealing a room ( A medium-sized room, brick walls, cement flooring). In the center sat a wooden chair, and tied to the chair was a girl (blonde hair, teenager roughly the age of 17). A blindfold covered her eyes, and another gagged her mouth. The video continued on for exactly 5.4 seconds, flickered, and finally went black again.

Silence engulfed the room then and Sherlock's mind raced.

Obviously-

"Obviously the girl is a hostage," Cordelia stated, interrupting Sherlock's thoughts and stealing them. "Locked in a room, tied, blindfolded, and gagged. The kidnapper was cautious about not letting her speak a word; then again the video was muted so either way it didn't make a difference. The room she sits in is a basement. Slight leakage in the corner of the screen tells you this, coupled with pipes attached to the ceiling in another corner. The previously mentioned kidnapper apparently wants something in return or he would have already murdered the girl."

If it was any other situation, the consulting detective would have found Lestrade and John's expressions slightly amusing. But this was not an amusing situation at all. Was this how they looked at him as he deduced and spoke his thoughts?

Lestrade gave a laugh. "That's…amazing!" then as an afterthought: "Who are you exactly?"

Cordelia raised her eyebrows, giving her name. When the D.I. shook his head in confusion, Sherlock was met with a glare from his sister. "You haven't told anyone about me? How rude."

Lestrade's mouth fell open. "Is she your girlfriend? How did _you_ get a girlfriend! And one as magnificent and gorgeous as her! Did you pay her-"

"Shut up, Lestrade! This is my _sister_, Cordelia."

After a moment of deep thought, Lestrade nodded slowly. "Oh…" Pause. "Wait, a sister? When did you get a sister?"

Sherlock gave an irritated sigh. "Not our top priority right now, _detective_. We need to find this girl."

"Yes, but _where_ is she?"

Snatching his phone from the pocket of his coat, the consulting detective briskly walked out of the office, clicking away at the buttons. "No idea. You'll hear from me soon."

An unknown girl in an unknown room for an unknown reason.

_How exciting this was going to be._


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Hello my lovely readers! Update time! I'll make sure to update again ASAP. Because I love you.**

**Enjoy!**

**Review please! They keep me motivated! ;)**

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The man lying on the couch was deathly silent with his fingertips pressed to his lips in a thoughtful stance and eyes closed in deep concentration. The flat was empty not including his self. Words and mutterings tumbled from his lips once in a while, breaking the silence, but soon afterwards it would be still again.

Someone had a girl hostage.

The girl meant nothing to the consulting detective, so obviously the kidnapper wanted him to simply know. Why did they want him to know? Simple – they wanted him to solve the puzzle. But why? If they had worked so hard at putting the pieces of their puzzle together, why would they want him to rip it apart? The previously-relaxed lips now tightened into a thin line. Someone was toying with him. So there was more to it than just a kidnapping. It was someone he knew. Then again, it could be a person he knew nothing of – they could have just stumbled upon his website by chance; heard of him from another.

The girl who was being held captive.

As previously noted, the girl meant nothing at all as far as his personal life was concerned. But apparently the girl meant _something_ or else they would not have bothered at all. Why a girl? Girls struck the heart of most people – causing them a weak point and to give in. Women had no effect like that over the detective, but he did know John was worried. Of course John was worried. An eyebrow quirked at that thought; so they knew about John. They knew the ex-army doctor would be concerned, therefore urging his friend along. He was getting sidetracked now, letting his musings take over. The girl. Surely there had to be news about a girl suddenly going missing-

_Of course._

"John, check the papers. I need you to look for any reports of a missing girl."

Sherlock waited impatiently for the sound of the doctor sighing, or the sound of ruffling newspapers. But nothing came in response. The consulting detective opened his eyes and looked around the flat.

Empty. Where was John?

_I thought he had followed me home_, Sherlock thought, now standing up and calling his name.

When still no response came back to him, he took out his phone to look for the information himself.

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The London night sky was clear tonight save a few dusty clouds. A light, chilly breeze swept through the darkened park, causing John to pull his jacket tighter to his body. His gaze was fixed upon the stars gleaming above.

The sound of the soft wind coupled with rustling leaves calmed the ex-army doctor, allowing him to relax after not being able to for the past couple of days.

Things at the flat had been fairly difficult and unnerving. Sherlock and his sister were constantly arguing and spouting nonsense (in John's eyes) to each other; and along the way John somehow had been thrown into the mix.

Why was Cordelia there in the first place? As silly as it may seem, the doctor had never come across this thought before. In his mind, he was just worried the flat was going to go up in flames. So _why_ had she come in the first place? And why did she need a place to stay? Surely if she was in town on business, Cordelia would have taken up residence at a hotel or the like.

John mulled over this, shoving his cold hands deep into his jacket pockets. He wondered if Sherlock would tell him anything if he got enough courage to ask. As of late, the consulting detective always hurriedly changed the subject at the slight mention of his younger sister. John had just given up hope and went along with it. But now, John was curious. And a curious John was hard to douse.

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As the doctor entered the flat, he was met with the familiar sight of Sherlock pacing away, no doubt wearing a path into the floorboards. Before John could even slip off his jacket, the detective was turning towards him in a flurry of excitement.

"I have discovered who the hostage is, John."

"Hang on, the girl? You've found out already?" John asked. He shouldn't have been surprised – leave it to Sherlock to dig into the non-existent evidence and find clues. John swore he had only been gone thirty minutes, maybe forty-five.

"Of course, John." The raven-haired man gave a roll of his eyes. But he quickly regained his excitement and a grin replaced the frown. "Her name is Louise Meldoor. She's the daughter of one of the high-ranking men my dearest brother works with, George Meldoor. Seventeen years of age, goes to a private academy, and was kidnapped just this morning."

John watched Sherlock rub his hands together quickly. "So you've found out who she is. What good will that do?"

"I-" he paused and his features switched to confusion. "What do you mean?"

"I don't see how knowing who the hostage is will help. How will we find her?" John took his place in his armchair.

An amused laugh slipped through the detective's lips. "My dear Watson, it will contribute a lot of information that is needed."

…

Before the ex-army doctor could bite back at Sherlock's retort, the door burst open and in stumbled his _adoring _sister. In her hands, she held two bags the detective immediately recognized as Chinese takeout from down the street. Cordelia smiled broadly at John. "I'm sure you're hungry. I got takeout this time-"

"John already ate." Sherlock snapped. He didn't want John's mind clouded even more than it already was – he needed him to bounce his deductions off of. John was his fill-in skull, and at the moment he was greatly needed.

Cordelia pouted a little and the consulting detective's anger flared a bit. He despised it when his sister did that – putting on acts just to get her way. She was more in tune with emotion than he was. Not to say she _felt _those emotions, but she definitely knew how to manipulate them to her liking.

In response to this act, his blogger stood up quickly. "Well, I did just grab a small bite. I'd love takeout, thank you."

As John took the bags from her and receded to the kitchen, Sherlock was met with Cordelia's smug smile. He clenched his jaw irritably.

She_ knew_ just how much he needed his faithful blogger and friend at that moment. Of course she knew.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:**_** This is a short chapter, I apologize in advance. It mostly consists of John's thoughts and musings over Sherlock's behavior. I promise next chapter will include some more action and such ;) I will also make it longer, and hopefully it will be uploaded very, very soon.**

**So enjoy~**

**And please review! Reviews make me write faster! ;)**

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Sherlock was acting unusual.

Well, more unusual than he normally acted, John corrected himself. It was something he was not used to, that was for sure. Maybe the doctor never expected the consulting detective's next move, but he did know what how he always acted personality-wise. And this clearly wasn't on that list of expectations.

For lack of a better word, Sherlock seemed _jealous_.

Not that John would ever mention this to him – the detective would give him an incredulous look and seem offended of such a statement.

So the doctor kept this to himself, now watching the man more closely than ever.

_He's rubbing off on me_, John mused, a smile forming on his lips.

It seemed as though ever since last night, Sherlock had been trying to separate the doctor and his sister with great effort. Mulling over this fact, it only made more sense that the emotionless detective was feeling this particular emotion.

For instance, last night after John had finished the takeout and taken a shower. Unfortunately (and quite embarrassing, if you asked him) there had been no clean towels on the rack. Cautiously poking his head out of the bathroom, he had yelled for someone to please grab him one.

In return, John heard Sherlock's sister call back to him that she would get one.

After a few seconds, Holmes' yells filled the flat and were bit back with yells from the youngest Holmes. They continued this for approximately 45 seconds. John had thrown on his clean clothes, and ignoring the fact they were now becoming soaked, padded downstairs in a huff.

To find Sherlock standing there, jaw clenched, clutching a towel in his hand; while Cordelia was placed in front of him, arms crossed stubbornly. Upon noticing the man behind them, Sherlock muttered something to himself. He threw the towel and John and left the flat in a hurry, leaving a confused John behind.

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"Something is up, Mycroft. I have no idea what has gotten into him." John muttered, sipping the hot tea carefully from its cup. He peered at the eldest Holmes over the rim. It was in the early hours of the morning, and John hadn't slept a wink. Worrying over the consulting detective had driven the doctor to find this man in front of him now.

Mycroft Holmes massaged his temples, eyes closed as if also tired. "My brother and I don't get along well with our sister-"

"Obviously."

"-which is why we never contact her and vice versa." He finished tightly.

John's thoughts trailed to last night while taking a stroll in the park. He had gotten sidetracked, not being able to ask Sherlock about Cordelia when returning to the flat. He set his cup back in its saucer carefully. "I have questions."

Mycroft gave a little sigh. "Of course."

"Why is she here?"

"Apparently Cordelia is traveling and happened to come through London. That is what she said to me."

"Couldn't she have just gotten a hotel?"

"Perhaps." Mycroft seemed to dig deep into this statement and he pursed his lips. "She has always been a difficult girl to handle and understand." He was muttering mostly to himself now.

Silence loomed over the two men deep in thought, and neither jumped at the chance to break it. John gnawed on his bottom lip, fingers strumming against the arm of the chair. There was more to it, obviously. A couple of minutes slowly passed.

"I'm worried about Sherlock." John told Mycroft as he met his gaze once more. "More than usual. I…he's not an emotional person, you know that. So what's going on with him?"

A smile touched Mycroft's lips. "Ah, John, this is my sister's doing. I'm terribly sorry." He paused dramatically. "I think…Sherlock is in fact jealous."

John was even more shocked at hearing it come from another's lips. He wrung his hands together in his lap.

"And," Mycroft continued. "I think Sherlock doesn't know how to act upon these foreign feelings so he chooses to ignore them. Don't blame him – you know what he's like." His smile turned apologetic.

* * *

><p>...<p>

..

Of course John wouldn't blame Sherlock. Like Mycroft had clearly stated – this was Cordelia's fault. And as much as he hated to blame the sister Holmes, it was true. She was weaving a complicated web of emotions and practically throwing Sherlock and John straight into it.

The doctor checked his phone as it alerted him of a text message.

_Come immediately. Bart's Hospital. –SH_

* * *

><p>...<p>

..

Sherlock was peering into his microscope, concentrating intensely on the liquid under the lens. Unlike John, the consulting detective had been hard at work ever since late last night. When John had left the flat, stating he needed to go get milk from the store (when obviously he wasn't – Sherlock knew John was making a trip to see his elder brother), Sherlock had also left, making his way to George Meldoor's office where his brother worked. After getting samples and taken some papers, he had come to Bart's Hospital. This was exactly an hour and fifty minutes ago and he had texted John exactly thirty minutes ago to meet him here. Problem was – his flat mate hadn't arrived yet.

Keeping his eyes glued to the liquid substance, he pulled the cellphone from his shirt pocket and speed-dialed John without a glance away.

In response, instead of hearing John's voice from the other end of the line snapping at him that he was on his bloody way, a sharp ringtone from the lab he was currently in startled him.

Sherlock saw John seated at a couple tables away, arms used as a pillow, sleeping away. When had he come in? Hanging up to stop the harsh ringing, the detective watched his friend's sleeping, peaceful face for a quick moment.

The corner of his mouth tugged upwards and he continued to work silently.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Look at you guys - reviewing and being awesome. Thanks so much ;) It means a whole lot to me.**

**The storyline is FINALLY coming together. So I hope you guys like this chapter.**

**Leave a review and tell me your thoughts!**

**Enjoy!**

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><p><strong>...<strong>

**..**

Cordelia carefully pushed the door open leading into the lab and observed her brother who was currently bent over a microscope, all attention poured into the lens. He was muttering miscellaneous phrases to himself and from what she gathered he was studying a piece of paper – attempting to pick out any detail or clue that would give him some sort of a lead.

Casting her eyes about the room, she spotted Dr. Watson resting his upper body on a table nearby and fast asleep. Both of the men hadn't slept last night then, she thought to herself.

"Did you need something, _dearest _sister?" Sherlock mumbled. He grabbed a pen and quickly scrawled something on a notepad placed next to the microscope.

Cordelia walked around slowly to her brother's side. Her eyes quickly grazed over the notes and she quirked a perfect eyebrow. "You went snooping, I assume? When?"

In response, Sherlock unnecessarily flipped the pad over, all the while shooting her a glare. "What do you need?" he repeated with a snap. "I'm busy."

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, the pieces clicking together smoothly in her head. "Oh. I see." She murmured softly.

With a roll of his pale eyes, her brother continued to work. "Of course you do."

"I thought you would have taken Dr. Watson along with you to gather clues from Mr. Meldoor's…" she paused, as if thinking more. "His office, was it?"

Sherlock glanced quickly over towards the sleeping form of the ex-army doctor, a hint of annoyance flashing across his once-placid features. "John was…busy." His voice was tight. Angry, then? At Dr. Watson? Cordelia looked more closely. No, annoyed. Annoyed at Dr. Watson.

"You've grown quite attached to him." Cordelia said with a sigh. She took a seat on the stool opposite him. "I'm disappointed."

She met the icy cold stare of her brother and hid her grin – she loved hitting those nerves of his; the ones that set him off.

He opened his mouth to reply, but the two were interrupted by a long yawn from behind. Cordelia looked over her shoulder and watched Dr. Watson stretch his arms and rub his neck.

"How long have I been out?" He asked sleepily.

"Thirty minutes at the most." Sherlock replied in a monotone voice. "Now will everyone shut up and _let me think_?"

* * *

><p>...<p>

..

Five minutes passed in complete and utter silence before the Holmes sister stood up and took her leave, her coat whirling about her in a flourish as she left the room.

John glanced cautiously at the consulting detective, who had now abandoned the microscope and was studying a piece of paper under a bright light. He had no idea what was going on – the last thing he remember was rushing into the lab just to find Sherlock at work. After voicing his arrival and with no reply, the doctor had decided to doze off for a bit. Since then, Sherlock had told him nothing nor had the implication of doing so.

"So what was so urgent that you had to go and speak with my brother?"

John winced a little. Of course Sherlock would have known that. He tried to think up of an excuse, but his brain lacking sleep allowed him to come up with nothing good, so he gave up. "I was just voicing my concerns to him." He watched as the detective peeled his eyes from the paper to lock them on the others.

After a few uncomfortable and awkward seconds, John tore his eyes away. He expected Sherlock to tell him off – snapping at him for the absurdness of worrying over his flat mate (because of course Sherlock would know it was about him).

"I found this piece of paper in Mr. Meldoor's work office," Sherlock stated instead. John swallowed the lump in his throat and made his way over to the detective's side.

"A note?"

"Yes, obviously. It's a note threatening Mr. Meldoor, stating that if he doesn't hand over a certain amount of money – his daughter would end up missing in precisely forty-eight hours."

John's eyebrows pulled together in confusion. "So wouldn't he have put his daughter under tight surveillance when receiving the note?"

A grin spread across the consulting detective's face. "Good, John. Good. You're_ thinking_." He set the note down. "Apparently our man thought that it was a scam – a fake, perhaps. His daughter was safe at her private school across town and nothing could harm her. Ah, but apparently not. After not handing over that money, his precious daughter was abducted."

John studied the piece of paper. "And I'm guessing you've been trying to squeeze out any clue this note might give?"

"You're on a roll today, John. I'm rubbing off on you." Sherlock said with a slight smile. It faded when his eyes landed on the note though, and John figured that so far the detective had found nothing worth his time. His flat mate drummed his fingers along the counter impatiently. "The handwriting is the same as what was on the envelope – it's a woman, I'm sure of it now. The way it's slanted, the delicacy of how it is written. There are no fingerprints, no particles of anything. This person knows how to clean up their work and how to go unnoticed."

John watched as Sherlock massaged his temples with his long fingers. "But obviously they wanted to be noticed – they sent me a tape informing me. I just need to find out the location of the girl."

A full minute slowly came and went before Sherlock spoke again. "We need to go interrogate Mr. Meldoor; find out who his enemies are and what he has been up to the past few weeks." He was already pulling his coat on and wrapping the scarf around his neck.

"Hang on; I thought you already – oh. Right. I knew I heard Cordelia mention something about you snooping around." John muttered.

"Coming, John?" Sherlock called from the doorway.

* * *

><p>...<p>

..

Mr. Meldoor's home was set on the outskirts of London – about a thirty minute drive from the hospital. The quaint mansion was surrounded with green grass and clusters of trees, nearly hiding it from view.

Sherlock drove up the long, graveled driveway, all the while taking in the details around him.

He had 'borrowed' a car from his brother, preferring not to take a taxi all the way out. John sat in the seat next to him, staring out of the window silently. It was nice to get away from the city, just him and his flat mate without his annoying sister around.

Pulling to a stop in front of the mansion, Sherlock turned the car off and pocketed the keys. A couple of other vehicles sat around. Two of them belonging to Mr. Meldoor, obviously – one work car, and another used for vacation (there were probably a couple of recreational others elsewhere). The other car, though, was definitely not his. It was a sleek red and the type of car belonging to a woman. Mr. Meldoor was not married, so his girlfriend, perhaps? The way the tires were set into the gravel, and the turn of the wheels meant this person had come here in a hurry – and had been here for approximately fifteen minutes at the most.

John and he made their way up to the wrap-around porch. The ex-army doctor rang the doorbell as Sherlock studied the objects around him. No plants - the man stayed at work most of the time then. The porch was in perfect condition – no pets then, also contributing to the fact that he considered his work to be his life.

The door opened and he assessed the man in front of him. Tall, thin, balding a bit on the top of his head. He wore an expensive suit (he was just about to leave for work then), food under the nails (a hurried breakfast, could only grab some toast before heading out), and slight bags under his eyes (worried about his daughter, obviously, but there was something else there too – nervousness?).

"Can I help you gentlemen?" His voice sounded forced, which only made Sherlock more curious. The man sounded too nervous – too mechanic.

"Yes, I would like to ask you some question referring to the kidnapping of your daughter, Mr. Meldoor." Sherlock replied, flashing the badge he had stolen from Lestrade quickly.

"U-Um…w-well, I'm sort of busy at the moment – could you come back later-"

"No, I'm sorry this cannot wait." Without another word, Sherlock pushed his way into the house. John sighed and called his name, then apologized to the man repeatedly.

Sherlock ignored both of them, looking around. He made his way into the common room, eyes trailing over the ceiling and then around the room.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, pausing in the doorway.

He was greeted by the sight of his sister perched daintily on the edge of one of the sofas, calmly sipping from a tea cup. "Hello, brother. I wasn't expecting you to arrive so soon."

Sherlock's lip twitched in annoyance. "What are you doing here?"

Cordelia smiled innocently. "I was just here talking to Mr. Meldoor. Isn't that right?" she called to the man now entering the room.

Mr. Meldoor wrung his hands tightly together, glancing between the two Holmes but having no idea the two were related. "Yes. Yes she was talking to me. W-Wondering how things were."

"Hm." Sherlock peered at the man before turning his attention back to his sister. "Would you mind taking your leave then, if you're finished? I have work to do."

"Certainly." Cordelia said, surprising him a little. She stood and placed her teacup back on its saucer on the little table. "I will be seeing you later, Mr. Meldoor?"

In response, Meldoor gave a quick nod. "Yes, of course."

Sherlock watched her walk towards the front door, heels clacking against the floor. "Goodbye, Dr. Watson." She gave him a smile and John returned it. Once out the door, his friend turned to him with a questioning look but all Sherlock could do was shake his head. Now wasn't the time to worry over his sister – he had a case to work on.

* * *

><p>...<p>

..

Cordelia walked towards her car. "He says he'll pay half now and half later when the girl is returned to him." She said into her cellphone. "But that won't do, will it?" A smile ghosted her lips as she opened the car door. "You remember what my instructions were? Good. Mr. Meldoor will deeply regret trying to pull one over on me."


	8. Chapter 8

**.oOo.**

It was precisely one hour before noontime when the consulting detective and army doctor arrived back at the flat of 221B. Deep in thought, Sherlock immediately took his usual place sprawled out on the sofa. After a few moments of watching this man, John then proceeded to say he needed to get the milk and would be back in a bit. Sherlock took no notice to this and soon the flat was without noise or distraction – a perfect atmosphere for his Mind Palace.

* * *

><p>John exited the flat, the cool breeze rustling his hair and kissing his skin. He had known that once stepping foot into their home the consulting detective's mind would be in a whole different place. Mr. Meldoor had given them plenty of information – people who he had been at odds with the past few months, what places he had visited, etcetera. The consulting detective had soaked it all up like a sponge while John scribbled notes away on a pad of paper.<p>

Mulling over the facts that they had learned, the doctor walked to the edge of street and hailed a taxi. Before John could reach for the door handle though, he felt a hand grip his shoulder. He spun around then – bracing himself for an attack or such, but none came.

Cordelia smiled at him, her perfect teeth peeking through the lips so similar to Sherlock's. "Hello, Dr. Watson. Would you care for some company?"

With a quick glance around John noted she was alone. Had she been following him? "Erm…sure."

The two rode in silence on the way to the grocery store, John completely lost in thought. Only when he stepped out of the taxi did Cordelia start speaking. "How is my brother?"

John quirked a brow at her as they stood outside. "Why couldn't you have just gone into the flat?"

"Oh you know my brother. He's probably thinking up a storm by now – it's quite horrendous when you interrupt him. Have you ever done that?"

A smile touched the doctor's lips, but he ignored the question and answering the previous one. "He's on a case – which means Sherlock is in a good mood."

"Hm, yes. But what about the situation with me, I wonder?"

John licked his bottom lip. Awkward silence engulfed the two and he finally muttered something about having to go get milk, and then proceeded to hurry off into the store. Why was she asking him, of all people? Surely with the amount of intelligence graced upon her, Cordelia would already know the answers. Did she just want to hear the words from his mouth?

His phone beeped then, interrupting his thoughts. John's mouth fell slightly open.

**Hostage dead. Come to morgue immediately. –SH**

* * *

><p>The body that lay before the consulting detective was like a nest of clues – why would the person behind all of this just hand over so much evidence leading straight to them? This said person was becoming more peculiar by the second. A couple had found the girl lying in a grassy area just across from Scotland Yard – it had been put there specifically so anyone could have easily seen her. No blood around the body pointed to the fact that she was not killed there.<p>

Ignoring Molly's attempt at assisting him by rambling off details about the girl (which he had already known, obviously), Sherlock studied the lifeless being more closely.

Light bruises circling the wrists – where the ropes had been locking her to the chair. Usually the bruises would be darker, but this showed she had barely struggled – meaning the girl was smarter than he had given her credit for.

Redness on the left cheek, a scrape with already-dried blood. Someone had slapped her when being disobedient – giving the nature of her intelligence, Sherlock guessed that she was withholding important information from her holders. A intelligent _and _brave girl then. Interesting-

"Oh geez. She really is dead."

Sherlock took a quick glance over his shoulder, eyes raking over John. Heavily breathing – he had hurried once receiving his text then. No bags in hand – he hadn't made it to the store, then? The detective narrowed his eyes. "Yes. Obviously, John."

When Sherlock refused to pull his eyes away, the doctor gave him a look of confusion. "Sherlock? What is it?"

"Nothing."

He returned his piercing gaze back to the body. "She was shot in the head. Immediate death, it appears. There is a purple bruise already formed underneath her hair, which means a shot to the head while standing up, causing her to fall, and the back of her head smashing against the floor."

The words tumbled from his mouth as the consulting detective examined the head, fingers brushing away hair. "Now, if I could just find – ah! Yes!" A grin began to spread across his face. "Here we are." He pulled out a speck of concrete from the gash. "As I suspected – underground concrete flooring is usually looser than what it would be above ground." With steady fingers, Sherlock slipped the piece into a small container, placing it back into his pocket. "Whoever murdered her had cleaned up well – but of course missed the important details."

With a flourish, the detective twirled around towards the door. "I'm off to the lab. Coming, John?"

* * *

><p>John watched Sherlock set to work again in front of the microscope. He folded his hands, resting his chin atop them. The detective always fascinated him to no end – which wasn't a surprising fact; it just amazed him every single time.<p>

"You saw Cordelia earlier, didn't you." Sherlock mumbled.

It wasn't a question, John realized, but he gave a curt nod anyways. "How did you know?"

"You have been avoiding direct eye contact since arriving, John."

The doctor fell silent and Sherlock continued to work.

A few minutes passed by. John opened his mouth, but before any words could slip out, Sherlock had jumped up quickly. "John! My phone!"

"In your coat pocket."

"Yes, I know! Fetch it for me!"

John held in a sigh and retrieved the cellphone from the coat lying across the chair beside him. The detective took it in his hands and began typing away on it. "I'm texting Lestrade. I've found the place where she was murdered."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Goodness gracious! 11 days since my last update? That's tremendously horrid of me, please forgive me my lovely readers! A lot has been on my mind lately and it had briefly taken away my want to write. Glad I have it back for the time being!**

**Apologies again. I feel so terrible.**

**Review if convenient! If not convenient, review anyway! ;)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Hello my lovely readers! This is finally the last chapter I will be submitting to this story - and it was a trek and a half to get out. I have to admit I'm not quite happy with how it turned out, or with how the whole story turned out to be honest. I've gotten quite distracted with many things going on in my life and I couldn't focus entirely on the plot. But either way, I hope you guys have enjoyed this story. **

**And thank you so much to each and every one of you who have reviewed, favorited, and alerted. **

**To those of you who have alerted: Please review! I accept criticism, you know. I'm not a pile of mush here ;)**

**KennFlores5, power0girl, SniperKingSogeking0341, Hannah, saysesydo, LaLa, Shall be lifted Nevermore, KSVamp, and Bec - thank you guys for reviewing!**

**And so here we are!**

**Enjoy (or not) !**

**And review away!**

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><p><strong>...<strong>

**..**

**.**

It was a little uncomfortable to be standing in a room where just a while ago, a helpless girl had been trapped in. John stood there with his hands clasped behind his back in his military stance while Sherlock scoured the room for any clues that might be found.

Lestrade and the team had only arrived a few minutes before them; before even being able to step foot into the room though, the consulting detective had demanded to be the first to investigate it (all the while claiming _they_ would be the ones to taint any evidence).

John stayed quiet, his eyes wandering around the room. It looked just like it had in the video. The chair was still placed in its exact spot, and it taunted the doctor as if to remind him second after second that they were unable to save the girl-

"John."

Snapping from his thoughts, the doctor's eyes met the detective's in question. Sherlock motioned around him. "See anything out of the ordinary?"

His eyes leaving Sherlock's, John quickly took a glance around. "Not really. It looks like it had been before."

"Exactly, John!" the other man exclaimed excitedly. "Exactly! Nothing is out of place!"

A hushed moment fell over the two before John gave a tiny sigh. "I don't understand."

"Of course you don't, John. You always see but-"

"But don't observe, yes." The doctor finished for him. "Why don't you just tell me what you found?"

"Blood."

"Blood?"

"There is not a trace of blood here."

"No trace of blood?"

"Stop repeating my words, John. You sound like a broken record. Yes – no blood. So where was the girl murdered? Obviously not here." Thrill bubbled in those pale green eyes.

"They could have cleaned up?" John suggested.

"Cleaning up blood off a cement floor is quite troublesome – it hasn't been long since she was shot, yes? The floor would still be damp with cleaner or such. But no, she wasn't killed here."

"Which means…?"

Sherlock gave an impatient sigh. "Which obviously means another is involved with this. A mastermind, you could say. Someone who is taking every precaution to make sure I don't know who they are." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Someone smart – someone cunning."

"But we don't know who this person is."

"Mr. Meldoor does." Sherlock tugged off the plastic gloves.

"He does?"

"Of course he does; I don't know why I didn't see this before. Come, John."

And John, being as clueless as ever, trailed after the consulting detective who strode off in triumph.

* * *

><p>...<p>

Sherlock practically flew up the couple of steps separating him from the Meldoor mansion and beat on the door. When it opened, however, the detective was met with a short, stout little woman instead of the tall, awkward man. She glanced behind him nervously. An apron was tied snug around her waist – a maid then? No, food stains stained the sides of the fabric – a cook, then. "Yes?" Her voice held an edge of anxiety.

"Been cooking long? Someone important is here, correct? That's why you're cooking – you came to the door in a hurry, which means you wanted to get back to work as soon as possible and also because this important person is having a very deep conversation with your boss. I need to speak with him, I don't care whom he is speaking with at the moment. This is urgent."

The lady blinked in utter surprise, but the consulting detective was becoming quite exasperated. He side-stepped her and slipped into the house, just to be stopped by a man emerging from the sitting room. Black suit, newly bought, shined shoes, chin tilted up – someone Mr. Meldoor worked with then? No, that wasn't it…

The man exited the house swiftly before he could gather more details.

"What are you doing here?" Meldoor said from the doorway. "I don't have time-"

"You know who your daughter's murderer is." Sherlock muttered. "And you best tell me who it is."

* * *

><p>John observed the both of them and waited for the response, but none came. The man looked quite uncomfortable and nervous all of a sudden – of course Sherlock noticed this right away and pointed it out. This only made Meldoor even more uneasy.<p>

"I cannot tell you." He finally said.

Sherlock scoffed. "You can, but there would be some consequence, yes? Your life, maybe? Or, rather your death I presume."

When Mr. Meldoor glanced away, it confirmed this statement.

Sherlock continued. "I guarantee your life will be at stake either way. They murdered your daughter without a second glance, I'm sure they would do the same to you."

"Sherlock." John sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

* * *

><p><strong>The Next Morning<strong>

* * *

><p>John peered closely at the consulting detective who was currently lounging in his chair in their flat, drumming those long, pale fingers against it. He was staring off blankly, as if deep in thought.<p>

They had practically interrogated Mr. Meldoor to no end trying to get a name out of him, but the man would not give it up. Sherlock had gotten that look on his face – the 'oh' look. And without a word the detective had left the house as quick as he had come, the confused doctor following.

Now John watched him closely.

"Sherlock? Are you feeling okay?"

"Hm."

"Aren't you worried about not finishing the case?"

"Hm."

"Did you already deduce who was behind all of this?"

"Hm."

"Sherlock!"

"_What_, John." Sherlock snapped, finally tearing his gaze away from the wall and to John's face. "The case was dull. Not important."

John gave a forced laugh. "Not important? You are full of-"

"Shut up, John. I'm thinking."

The doctor pursed his lips and silence smothered the two once again. Feeling dejected, John made his way to the kitchen to make a cuppa for himself. The door burst open then, halting John's steps.

Cordelia gave a fleeting smile and hurried about the room, gathering her things in a rush. John blinked. "Erm…"

"Sorry, dear brother." She said to the detective. "I'm afraid I suddenly have to take my leave."

"So soon?" Sherlock raised a brow. If John hadn't known any better, he would have thought that Sherlock _expected_ this.

"I'm afraid so."

"Did you get into trouble?"

Cordelia laughed lightly. "Dearest brother, don't ask stupid questions."

The detective rolled his eyes in exasperation. "I'm hoping you covered up your tracks?"

"Of course. I always do. The _mess_ is all cleaned up."

John cut in. "Uh, care to explain anything to me?"

"Sorry, Dr. Watson, I'm afraid that's my brother's job." Cordelia came to stand in front of him and leaned forward, pressing her lips to his cheek. "I shall see you again some time."

"Hopefully not." Sherlock murmured from his place on the chair.

The sister Holmes grinned. "You can never get rid of me, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

><p>Sherlock watched his sister leave after giving John a pat on the shoulder and another kiss on his cheek.<p>

Of course he knew that his sister had been the one behind it all. Well, he knew as of yesterday. And once Sherlock had discovered this little fact, it had all unraveled before his eyes.

A year ago, Mr. Meldoor had an affair with a woman, causing the divorce from his wife not a month later. The woman, it had turned out, was his dearest younger sibling. Her name at that time had been a fake, along with her identity and such. Mr. Meldoor made the mistake of breaking off the relationship, claiming his wife was more important to him than anything else.

Sherlock knew from the start that Cordelia never attached herself to any person, man or woman. Obviously his sister was playing along, and when Mr. Meldoor separated himself from her it just had given her more leverage against the man – all Cordelia had wanted was a large sum of money from him. At the time, Meldoor had thought it trivial. This, of course, was the case up until just a while ago when another threat came.

The man they were met with at the mansion also gave another hint – it was a man working for Cordelia, obviously. Sherlock didn't know why he hadn't noticed it before.

Sherlock smiled. Even though Cordelia had made a mess of things, she had definitely kept him entertained all the while. She knew he would enjoy it.

"What was all that about?"

Sherlock glanced up to see his blogger looking at him. The confused look on his face caused a smile to grace the detective's lips.

"Dull."

He instead held out that morning's newspaper to John, who took it and read the article on the front page. Sherlock waited.

John's eyes widened.

"Meldoor was found dead last night?"

"Very good, John. You can read."

"But I…"

"Case solved."

"It says here that the killer wasn't found…"

"Not important."

"Sherlock, it means the case isn't solved."

"I say that it is. Who are you going to believe, me or the papers?"

John groaned. "Fine then. Who was it?"

"My dearest sister, of course."

"Hang on…_what_?"

"Cordelia, John. It was Cordelia."

"But I…"

"You see but do not observe, as always, my dear Watson."

John fell into his own chair across from Sherlock's, mouth hanging open, and jaw slack. Sherlock found it rather amusing, he had to admit.

"Cordelia…"

"Yes." A pause. "She really is trouble in the form of a woman." Sherlock said with a sigh, and earned a small giggle from his flat mate.

**_FIN_**


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